“Hypocrite,” I mutter.
He settles into a chair at a great desk. Books and ledgers press in from the walls, heavy with centuries of information, though if I look closely, I can spy the empty slip of space where the ledger containing the details of Queen Mette’s change once was. He destroyed them after Annemette nearly revealed and ruined them all—Ragn has told me this much. I wonder if behind me, Anna senses this.
The sea king takes a long pull of the hvidtøl, whispering magic that keeps it free of seawater—the same spell I use with my potions. When he retires the bottle to his desk, it’s as if he’s aged a hundred years more. His skinseems thinned, showing every line, wrinkle. Veins run crosshatch under his skin. The blue of his eyes seems to fade. Even his hair, usually long and flowing, has gone brittle and split at the ends. Weak. That’s something I never thought he’d appear.
Yet, even as he looks as if he might dissolve into a pile of dust, the man takes another deep gulp of hvidtøl and then casts a summoning spell.“Koma,Svend.”
In the space of another swallow, there’s a quick, efficient knock on the study door.
“Enter, Svend.”
A young merman with the polite posture and efficient movements of a favored servant sweeps into the room. “You called, Your Highness?”
“I need a dose of ríkifjor serum tonight.”
This servant isn’t the type to even remotely sass back, but his expression flickers just long enough to count as a hesitation. “Certainly, Your Highness.”
He’s answered correctly, but his reaction isn’t lost on his king. “What is your concern?”
Svend draws himself up. “I have no concerns, Your Highness.”
“Ah, but you do. Out with it, Svend. However, if you take a cue from my mother and chastise me for my ríkifjor consumption, I will be sorely disappointed.”
The young man shakes his head. “I would never presume to suggest such a thing, Your Highness.”
“Good man.”
The sea king nods for him to speak.
“Your Highness, the ríkifjor flowers are... suffering.”
“Suffering, how?”
“This morning when I retrieved your dose, nothing was amiss. But over the course of the day, they’ve begun to shrivel.”
The king’s eyes go wide. “Shrivel?” He spits the word with disbelief.
The boy confirms it with a curt nod. “Yes, sir. At least half the crop is damaged.”
The sea king runs a hand through his hair. “Are they salvageable? Can we retrieve serum from them somehow and store it?”
“The flower keepers—we’ve tried. But the shriveled flowers produce no serum.”
I’m impressed when this king, as awful as he’s been to me, as controlling as he is over his daughters, doesn’t lash out at this boy. He doesn’t even demand to inspect the flowers for himself. Instead, he settles heavily back into his chair. “They’re dying without Runa.”
The boy doesn’t presume to nod, though he does have a question for his master. “Your Highness, would you still like me to bring tonight’s dose?”
“Yes, Svend, the usual amount.”
The boy bows and leaves.
Alone, the sea king allows his anger to surface. In ablink, he’s smashed his bottle against a bookcase across the room, sparkling shards littering the space where the boy just swam a moment earlier.
I turn from the cauldron, looking over my shoulder into the mouth of my cave, where Runa planted my ríkifjor. A handful of petals has fallen from the remaining plants and onto the seafloor. The flowers will be gone by the time Runa’s four days are complete.
If he doesn’t get her back, the withdrawal from the ríkifjor might be enough to kill him.
I shudder.
